Sink or Swim Part 5
I’d left Floofe Brother’s Engineering with a helmet reminiscent of the retro-futuristic bubble helms of the 50’s It split into two water tight pieces and snapped around Bob’s neck with water proof seals. It was supported by a harness that went around his shoulders and legs. Atop the dome was a snorkel to let air in and out, but with a float valve that would close if the helmet dipped below the water. A small fan circulated fresh air in to keep the condensation down, and any moisture that did accumulate got wicked away by the thick collar along the bottom.
Bob hated it.
He kept walking into things, unable to cope with the extra inch around his head and he shuffled uncomfortably in the harness, trying to wriggle out of it. He was able to pace just fine but would smack into the couch and side tables as he tried to walk around them. Eventually he just sat on his rump and hoofed at the collar keeping the helmet attached to his head.
“Nu wike hewmet,” he complained, finally laying limp upon the floor in protest.
“You’ll be able to swim without plugs in your nose,” I said.
“Nu wan swim,” Bob complained. “Swim dummeh way for fwuffy get wound. Wawa bad fow fwuffies.”
“You’ll thank me come August,” I said.
“Wha Awgust?” he asked.
The next morning, I woke at six and went to feed the fluffies. I found Bob nestled into his bed and Otis sprawled out in the middle of his enclosure like a drunk sleeping off a night of debauchery. He lay snoring, which was sort of cute. It reminded me that this thing was supposed to be an adorable child’s playmate, not a foul mouthed ball of rage he’d become. Despite the disgusting state of his cage which I’d cleaned only a dozen hours ago, he was clean with fluff free of feces and dirt. Why he never used his litterbox, I couldn’t tell. Otis woke with a start when I opened the enclosure and bolted for the food dish before I’d even finished setting it down.
“What’s your deal, Otis?” I asked. “You act like every time you get fed is going to be the last time.”
“Maybe is!” he yelled. “Hoomans fowget bout Otis aww da time! You fowget bout Otis too! Gonna haf wowstest bewwy huwties, den Otis have wongest sweepies. It happen befow!”
“So the guy who had you before starved you and told you horrible stories of mutilation?” I asked. I didn’t want to correct him about having “longest sleeps” before.
“Spchaw fwiend take wongest sweepies dat way,” said the tiny unicorn. “Nu wet happen ‘gan! Dummeh hooman fowget ‘bout Otis, fowget bout Bawb. Den Bawb have wongest sweeps, and Otis haf eat Bawb, but nu git out woom, den we aww have wongest sweeps!”
Well that certainly explained his trust issues. I really looked at him for a moment as he sat shoveling food into his cheeks. Here he was, this ancient micro fluffy worried about where his next meal was coming from. I was glad to have an appointment for that afternoon.
When Bob woke up, ate, and used his litter box, I took him over the bathroom where he went back into the tub. He didn’t appreciate having his helmet on as I worked to hang his sling from the curtain rod and towel rack. Otis, meanwhile, dashed around his enclosure, banging on the plastic walls with his eraser sized hooves.
“What yu do in dere?” he demanded. “Bwing back Bawb! Dun yu gif him owies or Otis gif yu owies!”
“Relax, Otis,” I yelled back. “We’re starting with swimming lessons.”
“Wawa bad fow fwuffies,” Otis and Bob said in unison, Otis screaming, Bob repeating it like a mantra. It made me wonder if that was just a preprogrammed response or if it’s something they truly believed. I finished tying off the sling, and suspended Bob’s hooves about four inches above the tub. He looked up at me, unsure of what to do next.
“Alright,” I said. “I’m going to turn on the water and fill the tub halfway up. You are going to pace through the water and then you will be swimming. Once we master this, well move up to more water.”
“Buh wawa…”
“Work with me, Bob,” I said. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. The water’s going to come up to your belly. You’ve got your helmet on and water can’t get in. We’re going to practice every day until you feel comfortable, then we’re going to go to the lake and try it there.”
Bob sighed, but dutifully went through his exercises, churning the tub water as he paced through the shallow tub. I added more water, bringing it up to his chest, then added more to replace what his fluff was soaking up. After ten minutes, Bob was panting with the effort, fogging up his helmet with deep breaths.
“Weggies feew so heaby,” Bob panted. “Pwease be done?”
“Sure Bob,” I said, pulling the drain. “You feeling okay?”
“Weggie huwties,” he complained. “Fwuff so fuww if wawa, make hawd to wawk.”
“We’ll figure that out next,” I assured Bob as I toweled him off.
That afternoon, I walked into what the internet declared to be the best fluffy vet in the country, Otis in his carrying case and Bob pacing behind on his leash. He’d mastered walking at a pace and looked regal trotting around compared to the other fluffies shuffling about. Surrounding us were fluffies of all shapes, breeds, and sizes. Some were missing limbs or other parts, others just looked ill, and still others looked happy and well as could be. Bob sat next to a shimmering silver alicorn, staring in awe at their fluff.
“Su pwetty!” he said. “Be fwiend wif Bawb?”
“Bawb wan be fwiend? Wif Achiwwes?” the fluffy asked. “Nu tink munstah?”
“Nu mustah dat pwetty,” said Bob, gently patting Achilles’s fluff. “Haf spechaw fwiend?”
“Nu can be yu spechaw fwiend, siwwy!” said Achilles. “Am boy fwuffy!”
“Nu fwuffy pewfect,” said Bob.
I dragged Bob away from the alicorn towards the other side of the room so the situation didn’t get even weirder than it already was. We sat in silence for a few more minutes before the vet called us in. She watched as Bob trotted into the room and nodded with approval.
“I see you taught him to pace,” said Dr. Stein. “How long have you had Bob?”
“About two weeks,” I said.
“You taught a feral to pace in two weeks?” she asked.
“I tied hangers to his legs and he figured it out pretty quick,” I said. “Bob’s not as dumb as he looks.”
“He eben dummew!” Otis shouted. Dr. Stein looked at Otis’s carrier, and adjusted her glasses.
“This is Otis, I take it?” she asked. I nodded and opened his carrier. She reached in to pluck up Otis with one hand, while pulling out a sheet of examination paper with the other. Bob fussed and cussed as she picked him up. She flexed his tiny legs, fingers held to joints, obviously feeling for something. She turned him over, examining his rear, much to his protests that “munsteh bish nu take spechaw wumps!” She pressed him down to the table, feeling all over his tiny body for lumps, bumps and other malformations, then flipped him over for the same examination on his underside. She checked his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth with one of these cone shaped light things. In a few minutes she returned him to his carrier and nodded her head in approval.
“So what made you pick Otis as a pet if you’ve only had him for two weeks?” Dr. Stein asked.
“Well I picked up Bob from Lake Martin before they cleared all the fluffies out,” I said, launching into an explanation of how I had planned to test Otis for buoyancy. Dr. Stein nodded, then set a finger to her chin in thought.
“How’s his cage hygiene?” she asked.
“Otis is a total slob,” I said. “He never uses his litter box. He hoards food, despite the fact he’s in his enclosure alone. He throws his toys around, and curses at everyone but Bob.” Dr. Stein nodded.
“I don’t think you should try to float Otis,” she said at last. “You ever notice how clean he is, despite the mess he leaves his cage?”
“No,” I said. “Up until two weeks ago, I never had a fluffy.” She looked at me puzzled for a moment then back at Bob who was busy listening to Otis’s ramblings. She turned back to me with a skeptical look.
“You’re doing experiments on fluffies and you’ve never had one?” she asked at last. I shrugged. “Well, I’m glad you came to me first. Fluff is miraculous stuff. It naturally resists oils and dirt, and if it weren’t hollow and full of holes, it’d keep water out too. Fluffies are only really dirty when they’re wet, and they dry pretty quickly. When they’re completely dry, fluffies are clean. They might be dusty, but that’s about it.”
“What does this have to do with Otis?” I asked.
“See, the thing about Otis isn’t just that he’s old,” Dr. Stein said. “He’s really old. He’s been a little blue unicorn all his life and that fluff isn’t just decorative. It’s part of his identity. A fluffy’s coat is part of who they are. Even if he’s as messy as you say he is, he still takes the time to maintain and clean his fluff, and that’s what’s keeping him going. If you put sea fluffy oil on him, it will stain him black.”
“So?”
“So, he’s already showing symptoms of dementia,” said Dr. Stein. “If he sees himself in black fluff, he’ll forget who he is. He’ll forget what he’s doing. He’ll have more accidents. He’ll be angrier and have more violent outbursts, followed by uncontrollable sobbing. He’s already confused and yells all the time.”
“He’s not confused,” I protested. “I mean, his stories are sort of related to what’s going on, and I just figured his last owner was nearly deaf…” I looked back to Otis who was busy yelling at Bob.
“And tings bettah den?” asked Bob.
“Tings wowse!” Otis shouted. “Fwuffies git wowstest owies evey day! Heads, wumps, wingies aww git chop off of fwuffies, gwued bak one, den chop off next bwight time! Mummahs haf bebehs gwued to hoovsies, haf bebbeh weggies! Mummahs use espwode!” Otis babbled on for a few minutes about all the horrible things he’d seen and heard over the years. Maybe she was right.
“Fluffies aren’t supposed to curse,” Dr. Stein Said. “It’s a built in psychological block, but it’s not that deep. You can tell something’s wrong with a fluffy if they swear a lot. On top of that, he’s got arthritis, which accounts for him being cranky all the time.” She pulled a pad from her lab coat pocket and started writing something down on it. “But the agitation, hoarding, and refusal to use his litterbox? That’s dementia. It’s really rare in fluffies since so few make it to this age. Otis might be the first micro to live long enough to get it. Their brains just aren’t designed to last this long, and his is literally falling apart. I’d say he’s got about three to six good months left.”
The news was a sucker punch. Less than a month into having a pet and I was going to lose him. I didn’t even know how to feel. Did I have some great attachment to Otis? Should I have felt worse? How was Bob going to handle it?
“So, what do I do?” I asked. “I’ve never had a pet before.”
“Well, you could have him put down,” said Dr. Stein. “It’s painless and to be honest with you, it might be for the best. If you do that, I’d be happy to do a necroscopy. There’s a lot to learn about fluffies with dementia.” She handed me the prescription she’d written. “The other thing you can do is keep him happy. Give him love, give him treats, and give him a nice place to live out what’s left of his life. Include him in things and treat him like fluffies are supposed to be treated. Maybe get him a friend his own size. Increase the amount of fat in his diet, so he’ll have a little bit more insulation for his nerves.” I nodded, then looked back to Bob, still trying to process what she’d said.
“Any suggestions on making Bob float?” I asked, not sure how to continue the conversation.
“Life vest,” she said. “Either than or replace his skin with a sea fluffies,” she said, as if suggesting a tune up for a lawnmower.
“You’re the second person to say that. Can you really do that?” I asked. The gleam in Dr. Stein’s eyes was unsettling.
“I have fluff transplanted hundreds of fluffies,” she said, her smile widening, “You bring me a sea fluffy and I’ll have Bob’s skin swapped out in under an hour. I’m sure he’d be happy to get out of that hideous orange coat. Bob wouldn’t you be happier being a pretty color?”
“Bawb am pwetty in own way,” he said.
“Really?” I asked. Had he learned a valuable lesson about himself from day time PBS?
“Nawt weawwy,” he said, drooping his head a bit. “Bawb jus ugwy.”
